I, on the other hand, am still wearing what I was wearing earlier. It wasn’t a good look for running into my ex, and it’s not a good look for dinner at the royals’.
I go into my bedroom and stare at the clothes in my closet. I know I was over there just the other day, but this feels more formal, seems more special. Eventually I settle on a yellow maxi dress with tiny white flowers, a flattering neckline, and billowy sleeves. If I pull my hair up into a topknot and wear some makeup, I might just look elegant, enough to fool them anyway.
When I’m ready, I throw Liza a treat to keep her occupied while we’re gone, and we head outside, my mother holding the cake. It isn’t until we’re at the fork of our driveway that we’re able to see the cul-de-sac. I see the cop car, but I don’t see any of the media, so maybe Bert scared them away, or maybe they’ll only stay away as long as he’s there. My mother doesn’t even look that way, keeping her eyes focused on the landscaping as we head up their driveway, oohing and aahing at the flowers.
Obviously I can’t hide the media chaos from her forever, and she’s not stupid. She’s going to understand and most likely expect all of that to come with having royals next door. But even so, I’m protective over her, maybe when I shouldn’t be, and just want to keep everything about our lives at an even keel for as long as possible.
Even though we’re about to have dinner with British royalty.
“I never got a good look at this place before,” my mother says in awe. “It’s beautiful. And it’s so light and airy.” She briefly turns around and aims her face at the evening sun, her eyes closed. “Hard to believe we live just a few feet away.”
Seeing my mom outside like this makes me want to take her on more hikes, get her out of the house more often, even if we have to deal with the paparazzi when we do so. Maybe Bert could be an escort or . . .
Before I can vocalize this to her, the door opens and Agatha appears.
“Good evening,” she says to us. “Please come in.”
My mother and I take off our shoes in the hallway and then follow Agatha down the steps to the living area, where Monica and Eddie are standing beside each other, smiling.
Monica, of course, looks gorgeous in a pastel-orange dress not too dissimilar to mine, her hair pulled into a smooth low bun, her face with barely any makeup, and Eddie is wearing a navy polo shirt and dark jeans. I exhale when I realize that this dinner isn’t going to be too fancy for us.
“I am so glad you came,” Monica says, clasping her hands at her stomach, looking at the both of us.
But my mother is starstruck, this time by Prince Eddie.
I mean, how can she not be? He grew up before her very eyes on the television, and now he’s standing right in front of her.
“She baked you a cake,” I say, taking the cake from my mother’s hands and handing it to Monica. “Sorry, she’s catatonic.”
Monica laughs. “I’m used to it. People are always so enchanted when they first meet Eddie. Can’t say I blame them. I felt the same way.” She pauses and gives him a sweet smile. “Still do.”
Argh. They are the cutest.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Evans,” Eddie says, reaching out. He grasps my mother’s hand between both of his, looks her warmly in the eye, and gives her a hearty shake.
My mother died a little inside. She makes a squeak that sounds like “thank you.”
“Now if you will pardon me,” Eddie says, “I have to tend to the lamb. I hope that’s all right with you? I made a vegan casserole if not.”
Oh my god. This prince is full of surprises. “You did the cooking?”
He grins. “I had a little help, don’t worry. With some luck, it will be edible.”
Eddie walks off to the kitchen, while Agatha waits patiently beside us.
“What would you like to drink?” Monica asks, gesturing to the chairs.
“Whatever you’re having,” I say, noting the glass beside her.
I swear she blushes. “This is just sparkling water. Do you drink wine, Mrs. Evans?”
“Please call me Evelyn,” my mother says. “And actually, I’ll go for a sparkling water too.”
I’m proud of my mom. She’s not supposed to drink on her medication, though she often reaches for wine when she gets upset or nervous, and it hits her hard and makes everything that much worse. Tonight she’s showing restraint, which makes me think I should do the same out of solidarity.
“I’ll have the same,” I say.
“Piper,” my mom quickly says. “Please. Have your wine. I’m fine; so is Monica.”